


Surrender

by Tish



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Boots - Freeform, Face-Fucking, Interrogation, M/M, Sex as an Assertion of Dominance, Sexual role play, identity play, post-Episode: s04e11 The Gurnius Affair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-21 08:06:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10681170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tish/pseuds/Tish
Summary: Every interrogation is a performance, every spy is an actor, every surrender is a victory.





	Surrender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Franzeska](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Franzeska/gifts).



The waiting was always the killer. Chained up, handcuffed, or strapped to a chair, like Napoleon now was, and waiting for the interrogation to begin. Some would get straight to the point with fists or words, others would explore their inner Thespian and show off their flair for the dramatic.

Some chose to be more subtle, their art lay not in demonstrating huge props like laser beams or trained attack alligators, but in the theatre of the mind.

 

Napoleon inspected the straps holding him to the metal chair, flexing a muscle now and then to test the bonds. The overhead spotlight sank the rest of the room into darkness, so all focus was on Napoleon.

He listened to silence. He knew his interrogator was behind him somewhere in the gloom, watching, waiting for the right moment. A soft, rhythmic slapping sound started, and Napoleon knew the performance was to begin. He smiled to himself.

Footsteps approached and a crackle of leather signalled a turn as Napoleon listened to the pacing of boots on metal flooring, back and forth, left to right, behind him. The soft slapping resumed, sometimes on flesh, sometimes against cloth.

“What am I going to do with you, Mr. Solo?” The man spoke with a slight German accent, soft but menacing. 

“You will release me and surrender, Colonel Nexor,” Napoleon replied evenly.

“Oh, but of course. I shall give you release and surrender to your, ah, charms. Yes, I shall do so immediately,” The man's sarcasm was witheringly sharp as he stepped up to right behind the chair and pushed a bamboo baton under Napoleon's chin.

Napoleon bit his tongue as he returned Illya's stare. “I'm U.N.C.L.E.'s top man, and I always get my man.”

Illya slid the baton across Napoleon's jawline. “It is a shame then, that you seem to be somewhat tied up and will end up as _my_ man.”

Napoleon shook his head. “You won't break me. I won't choke.”

The baton edged closer to Napoleon's mouth as Illya leaned in closer, looming over Napoleon's shoulder. 

“You are a hard man, Solo. I'm sure you won't choke if you relax, yes?” The baton brushed against Napoleon's lips, tracing an arc around his mouth. Pacing around the chair, Illya slowly moved the baton and angled Napoleon's chin up, forcing him into a kiss. He pressed a hand against Napoleon's shirt and slid two fingers between the top buttonholes, resting in the warmth of his chest. Softly brushing his hand back, he moved down to the next set of buttons and repeated his actions. 

Still kissing Napoleon, Illya reached the last buttonhole and took hold of Napoleon's striped tie. “You have exquisite taste, Mr. Solo, I'm sure this would make a fine funeral suit for your casket.”

 “I don't plan on dying any time soon,” Napoleon felt Illya's hot breath against his skin, and contemplated that he might die of spontaneous combustion, gazing into Illya's eyes only made the feeling in his pants worse. 

“You might die for a short time, to be revived and die once again,” Illya's voice was thicker and lower than before as he placed a hand on Napoleon's thigh.

Napoleon stifled a moan as Illya squeezed between Napoleon's thighs, feeling the hardening flesh beneath the suit. He rocked up and down on his heels for a moment, then lifted one leg to slip one booted foot between the thighs. Napoleon's thigh muscles spasmed as the leather creaked between them, the pressure of the steel-capped toe hardening underneath his balls. Illya began to move his foot microscopically and the tension agonisingly built up, then abruptly stopped as the boot was replaced by the baton.

There was a rustle of clothing as Illya's voice whispered in his ear, “I might just choke you, Mr. Solo. I'm quite sure at least one of us will enjoy it, too.”

At the pressure of the baton rubbing against his pants leg and his cock, Napoleon let out an agonised moan, eyes shut, mouth open. Illya watched for a moment, eyes half open as he trailled his fingers along his erect cock. With a quick, fluid movement, he had his prisoner's face tilted down and his cock in Napoleon's mouth.

“I could bite,” Napoleon carefully enunciated as he looked up and ran his tongue around Illya's cock. 

“That you could. I could also release the hidden blade in my baton,” Illya rolled the baton between Napoleon's legs to illustrate his point. 

“Oh, _that_ baton,” Napoleon conceded and started sucking and licking the _other_ baton.

Illya allowed himself a small smile and brushed his free hand back around Napoleon's neck to caress the close cropped hair at the nape. Napoleon used his tongue to stimulate Illya, never tearing his eyes from Illya's, watching for that first sign of weakness. Napoleon took Illya further into his mouth and gave the slightest scrape with his teeth, quickly running his tongue over the shaft. Illya gasped and twitched his head, tilting back and blinking rapidly from the bright light overhead.

That moment's distraction was all Napoleon needed and he slipped one arm free and released the other leather strap. He pushed up and pivoted Illya around, the bamboo baton torn from his grasp and held against his throat in a deadly grip, one of Illya's arms pinned behind his back. Illya tensed his body and started to move one leg, but Napoleon jammed his own leg against it, spreading Illya's legs.

“You appear to have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Solo. You also appear to have a gun pressed in my back,” Illya's voice was cool and calm as he relaxed his body slightly. 

“Indeed, and I don't fire blanks,” Napoleon replied, ignoring Illya's smirk. He quickly twisted Illya's arm and kicked his leg away, throwing him off-balance enough to push him down on the floor on his stomach.

Illya hissed as his still-exposed cock pressed against the cold, metal floor and he writhed slightly, getting a warning arm twist from Napoleon. 

“Settle down, Nexor. I said I always get my man, and I intend to get you,” Napoleon smoothly said, making quick work of the restraints from the chair. He pressed a knee into Illya's back as he secured his arms. 

Illya found himself flipped over onto his back and Napoleon's satisfied smile in his face. Napoleon slapped the baton against his palm, then held it near Illya's crotch. 

“It's best not to make any sudden moves,” Napoleon cooed as he straddled Illya's body, settling down over Illya's crotch. He ground down and held the baton under Illya's chin. 

“You'll get nothing from me,” Illya's eyes narrowed. 

“I'll get everything from you, _Illya_ ,” Napoleon replied as he rubbed his thighs and buttocks against Illya's erection.

Illya arched his back, pushing up against Napoleon, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly, finally breathing the word _everything_ to Napoleon. 

Napoleon shifted position to kiss Illya, before settling back to rub himself down along Illya's body. For Illya, Napoleon's progress was achingly slow and he dared to move his hips slightly. 

“Shhhh,” Napoleon placed the baton to Illya's lips and set his full weight on Illya's cock. 

Illya darted his tongue out to lick the baton and stammered something unintelligible. Napoleon titled his head to hear, frowning. 

“I surrender,” Illya's voice was strangled and hoarse, his eyes full of pleading.

Napoleon nodded and lifted his weight slightly, then squeezed a hand around Illya's cock, rapidly tugging back and forth. Napoleon held Illya's gaze as he came with an anguished cry and a full body shudder. 

Adjusting his position once again, Napoleon perched himself over Illya's body, looking down at his eyes and lips. He lifted his now-wet hand to his mouth and tasted it.

He hauled Illya up to his knees and sat in the chair, gripping his hair to guide him into position. Illya rested his head against Napoleon's hand as he watched him, eyes dazed and still full of desire. He eagerly leaned forward and took Napoleon into his mouth, letting Napoleon push his head down to set a quick pace as he sucked him off. Napoleon added several thrusts of his hips as Illya went down, thoroughly enjoying the face-fucking. 

Illya never wavered in his determination to do a good job for Napoleon, and his eyes shone with love despite the awkward and increasingly painful position he was in. He watched with satisfaction as Napoleon's face contorted with the effort and overwhelming passion.

“YES!” Napoleon ejaculated.

Illya swallowed and said something indistinct, slowly drawing back to breathe unencumbered. 

“I surrender,” Illya repeated softly. “I surrender.” 

“I surrender to you, too,” Napoleon sighed as he kissed Illya.

 


End file.
